By Stanisław Lem, Michael Kandel
This can be a number of ideal but imaginary experiences of nonexistent books. With insidious wit, the writer beguiles us with a parade of pleasant, disarmingly popular innovations. "Lem is Harpo Marx and Franz Kafka and Isaac Asimov rolled up into one and down the white rabbit's hole" (Detroit News). A Helen and Kurt Wolff Book.
Note: The yr 1983 is the production date famous on Overdrive, most probably the 12 months it was once translated from Polish. the unique paintings was once released in 1971.
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The small natural family pictured at the edge of the field doesn't seem perturbed, but then, they are Japanese: they even let their children be entertained by a windup monkey. Jaidee makes a face. "I'm sure you'll find some excuse. " He claps the Customs men on their backs. "Don't look so glum! Use your imagination! " Kanya finishes packing up the money. She secures the woven satchel and slings it over her shoulder. "We're done," she says. Down field, a new dirigible is slowly descending, its massive kink-spring fans using up the last of their joules to maneuver the beast over its anchors.
Captain Jaidee Rojjanasukchai is more than aware of this as he stands under the vast belly of a farang dirigible in the middle of the sweltering night. The dirigible's turbofans gust and whir overhead. Its payload lies scattered, crates and boxes splintered open, their contents spilled across the anchor pad as though a child has recklessly strewn his toys. Sundry valuables and interdicted items lie everywhere. "30,000, 35,000 . . 50,000 . . " Around him, Bangkok's newly renovated airfield spreads in all directions, lit by high-intensity methane lamps mounted on mirror towers: a vast green-bathed expanse of anchor pads dotted with the massive balloons of the farang floating high overhead, and, at its edges, the thickly grown walls of HiGro Bamboo and spun barbed wire that are supposed to define the international boundaries of the field.
Her nipples harden. The glow worms twist and writhe overhead, sending out phosphorescent mating light. The men laugh at her. Kannika slaps her hip and makes her bow. Slaps her ass hard enough to burn, tells her to bow lower, to make obeisance to these small men who imagine themselves to be the vanguard of some new Expansion. The men laugh and wave and point and order more whiskey. Raleigh grins from his place in the corner, the fond elder uncle, happy to teach these newcomers—these small corporate men and women high on fantasies of multinational profiteering—the ways of the old world.